


Life and Other Oddities

by Lucifuge5



Category: Canadian RPS - Fandom
Genre: M/M, c6d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-16
Updated: 2010-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Judging by how crazy he and Paul were last night, it's going to be a while before his un-better half wakes up.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Life and Other Oddities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imaginethetruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginethetruth/gifts).



> Written for the 2010 Midsummer Challenge. Thanks are due to those of you who cheered along, pulled ears and helped me feed carrots to this plot bunny. I'm also grateful to for giving swell feedback and to the ultra-fierce without whom I would have never finished this story. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Finally, this story is a work of fiction.

**Working 9-to-5 has never been a dream of mine.**

_2010_

Callum is half-sitting, mostly slouching on the living room sofa, all of his attention focused on the screenplay for that Canadian astronaut movie Paul was talking about during last night's dinner. There's a pile of scripts on the floor next to the ashtray that is almost, but not quite, overflowing with the remnants of his last pack of American Spirits.

It's nearly noon and he's too calm to read a proper book and too jittery to watch TV. He takes off his glasses and stretches all his limbs before settling back down. Judging by how crazy he and Paul were last night, it's going to be a while before his un-better half wakes up.

Those who don't know them well tend to ask Paul if he's ever been bothered by how much Callum works. Yes, it is true that Callum has five projects in the air versus Paul's one or two. What a lot of people don't know or, more possibly, actively ignore is the amount of behind-the-camera work that Paul is involved in. That man would write in his sleep if he could.

Callum closes his eyes. His mind drifts off to one night back in their _due South_ days.

 

_1998_

He had just finished giving Paul the kind of blowjob that would render anyone but "Paul Fucking Gross" unconscious. Rather than slide up to his face, Callum stayed right where he was, head resting against the innermost part of Paul's left thigh. He felt like purring.

"Cal, what would be your dream movie?"

He snorted. "If you're thinking of getting me to the casting couch, Mr. Executive Producer, I'm afraid you're a tad too late."

His deadpan delivery made Paul giggle. "No, really. Would it be a comedy? A coming of age? Or maybe a period piece?"

He closed his eyes and gave into the sensation of Paul's fingers running through his hair. It was pretty fucking hypnotic. He loved it. The desire to purr increased. Paul seemed to think he was taking too long and gave him a naughty-nice tug.

"Ouch! Watch it!"

This time the tug was gentler. "You haven't answered the question."

It took great effort—giving good head was an intense undertaking—but Callum managed to open up his eyes, tilting his head back a little to better look at Paul. "Probably something that would fit very well in the pathos of Canadian cinema."

The curious expression in Paul's face faded into one of tenderness. One short moment later, his eyes began to grow darker gray as his gaze quickly became one of undiluted lust. "Good to know."

"Really? Talking about the Canadian film industry gets you all hot and bothered?" Callum raised an eyebrow. "You, my friend, are a Grade-A weirdo."

 

**Marriage is a labyrinth with no map.**

_2010_

Callum is in the middle of prepping a canvas when his cellphone rings. He swipes his hands against his paint-splattered jeans before picking the receiver. It's too early to be Paul—who, at this very moment, is probably neck-deep in writing mode for that boardgame movie.

This is the first weekend—in nearly three months—he has been able to mix oils and stand in front of his easel for as long as he wants. "Good afternoon, morgue," he says without much enthusiasm.

"Hey, Rennie. The old man thinking of making an honest man out of you yet?" Hugh sounds like he's running out breath.

"What are you doing running at . . . ," Callum glances at the clock in the living room and does a quick calculation in his head, "nine p.m.?"

"You try going all over town in a full SRU kit for just one Toronto summer day. Then, come tell me you can do that for weeks on a stretch without passing out," Hugh answers. "Dink."

Callum shakes his head and picks up the gesso brush. "Uh-huh."

"Anyways, stop avoiding the question. The two of you are finally living in the same house. Hell, both of your dogs get along. So, when is he going put a ring on your finger?"

He rolls his eyes. "Are you sure you're Hugh and not my mom?"

"I just happen to be placing a valid inquiry. As your best friend since teaching you how to fucking play the _geetahrrrr_," Hugh says affecting a countrified accent, "the duties of best man will befall on me."

"Did Paul put you up to this?"

Hugh sounds ecstatic. "Does that mean he's proposed already? Fuck me!"

For a moment, Callum doesn't know whether he's annoyed at the surprise in Hugh's tone of voice or happy that Hugh has claimed the role of best man without a moment's thought to Callum's brothers. He tries to imagine what kind of wedding Paul and he would have. A quiet, intimate to do or a huge, bombastic bacchanalia? They would probably have to wear matching tuxes. Of course, he could always claim he wanted to tap into his Scottish roots and wear a _kilt_. Maybe--

"Hellooo, Earth to Canada's answer to Jackson Pollock!" Hugh snaps him out of the daydream, "are you or are you not a groom to be? I gotta know since, as _best man_, I will totally have to throw you the world's best stag party. With golf groupies even."

Callum can't stop laughing for a full minute after that.

 

_1998_

Ramona Milano's bridal attire looked like a nine-year old designed it. The skirt part of the dress was so puffy that she couldn't even sit down. Between having to maintain a serious face while looking at his boyfriend pretend to be dead and the very loud swish-swish that echoed through the set every time Ramona _breathed_, Callum fumbled several takes before getting into the groove.

Ten takes in, there was a problem with the lighting so the director called for a quick break and went away to confer with the cinematographer. Paul and Callum sneaked off to the side for a little bit of necking followed by two and a half cigarettes.

Callum exhaled, the pale smoke curling up into the ether. "You ever think of getting married again?"

"Not often, no," Paul answered before flicking his cigarette butt in a perfect arc and brushing some ashes off his jodhpurs.

Callum nodded at him. Everyone who was anyone had heard about Paul and Martha's divorce three years before. What threw a lot of people for a loop was how amicable it was.

Back then, Callum spent half the time wearing Billy Tallent like it was a borrowed sharkskin suit and the other half roughhousing with Hugh. Sandra was the one who kept him updated on Canadian gossip. Still, he hadn't known Paul. So, the break-up between Paul and Martha, sad as it was, remained an abstract idea up until he joined _due South_.

"More than the kids, it's Martha who tells me that I've got to settle down one of these days," Paul said.

The hairs in the back of Callum's neck stood up right then and there. "Let me guess: you're the 'once bitten, twice shy' type."

Paul winked at him. "Nah, more like the kind of person who might not be lucky enough to get married again . . . for obvious reasons."

Once they went back from break, Callum knew that, on an unconscious level, he kept an eye on Ramona's dress. He tried to remember whether he's ever played a groom but his mind drew a blank.

 

**My hobbies, myself.**

_2010_

**Everyone** knows about Callum's two main hobbies: golf and painting. Occasionally, Hugh ribs him about playing such a wussy sport and wanting to be an _artiste_. He ignores Hugh's mocking most of the time.

Unfortunately, Paul, being the stubborn fuck he can be at times, joins in when they're all having dinner in L.A.

Callum can't quite figure it out. There's something about being away from Canada that pulls Paul and Hugh into a weird version of insta-friendship. He's happy to see them getting along. However, they can be incredibly annoying when they gang up on him. "All right, you fuckers," he says, pushing his half-eaten steak away from him. "I'll take both of you on the ice rink, right now."

Paul and Hugh look at each other and grin. "Deal," Paul says while Hugh whips out his cellphone and starts tapping on it.

"Man, all of you suck," Jim says shaking his head. "I'll be a goalie, okay?"

Paul gives Allodi a quick nod and gestures at the waiter for the bill.

"Texting Midori your last good-byes, Hugh? 'Cause I bet you won't be able to move after I give the two of you the kind of asskicking you both deserve." Callum makes sure to add a little bit of malice in his voice. He can trash-talk with the best of them.

They drive to a nearby ice rink they found thanks to Hugh's Googlemania. Callum might be the thinnest one out of four, but if there is something the other three always forget is that he's a wily son of a bitch when it comes to hockey.

He ends up scoring the most goals.

The next morning, however, he can barely get out of bed. A buzz-buzz from his cellphone has him enduring a painful stretch while reaching out for it.

PICKING YOU UP IN FIFTEEN. I'VE BOOKED US MASSAGES. PAUL.

There **is** a reason why he's in love with this man.

 

_1997_

Callum already knew Paul had a warm voice, the kind of voice that made him think of lazing about on a hammock during a spring afternoon. Nevertheless, it was a complete surprise to catch Paul playing an instrument.

He had been walking back to his trailer, next week's script in hand, when he came across Paul singing a quiet song to an audience of no one. "Hey," he said.

Paul straightened up yet his fingers were still going up and down the neck of the guitar, like he was caressing it.

The slide was somewhat distracting. Callum thought about those hands skimming all over his body. It made for a nice visual. "Actor, writer and producer. Is there something you can't do?"

"Pilot a spaceship maybe?" Paul tapped on the soundboard. "You sing?"

"No if what you want is something melodic." Callum shook his head side to side. "I sound like a drowning bird when I do."

Carefully placing the guitar on the floor before leaning against the back of his chair, Paul licked his lips before answering. "If I believed in reincarnation, I'd love to come back as a folksy country music star."

"Huh," Callum said, tilting his head to the side. "I can see that."

The blush that broke out in Paul's face was quite fetching. "Any requests?" Paul asked, picking up the guitar once again and looking at him with an eager expression.

"Nothing comes to mind just yet," Callum answered before sitting down next to Paul. "But go ahead and gives us something that would make Stan Rogers proud."

"Okay," Paul said and started to do his own version of crooning.

He wasn't too familiar with the song, but the sincerity in Paul's voice touched a tender part of him. _I'm in big trouble_, Callum thought as he enjoyed the impromptu concert.

 

**Your beginning is my middle.**

_2010_

Callum crushes his cigarette with his foot. His back to the set, he is solely focused on Paul's voice. Its sleepy sexy tone should be illegal this early in the morning.

"I know you'll be okay, Callum."

He nods. "Yeah, I know but—"

"But nothing. _Shattered_ is more than a great opportunity for you. It's more than about time for you to star in a series that doesn't involve a villain role. Even it means not being a cyclone."

Callum laughs. Even after all this time, nearly 14 years together, Paul is still totally clueless about science-fiction. "You mean _Cylon_, right?"

"Whatever." He imagines Paul waving his dorkiness away. "You've got great people with you, Molly's there to keep things from becoming too boring and we're only three hours away from each other."

It might make him a big sap, but Paul's no-nonsense tone calms some of his jitters. He's about to say something to that effect when he sees Molly approaching him.

"Callum?" She smiles at him. "I think they need us to do some blocking."

Callum nods and turns back around. "I'll see you this weekend, okay? Your turf." If there's one thing he knows is that, as much as he hates flying, Paul's going to be too tied up with rewrites for Callum to even suggest flying back to Canada.

"Okay. Oh, one more thing Cal?"

"Hmm?"

"Break a leg."

He clicks the phone off and slides it in the front pocket of his jeans. It's the first day of principal shooting for the second episode and he is ready to face everything that's coming his way.

Walking back to bench where he dropped his script, he thinks about what's to come.

 

_1997_

There was always one question every reporter would throw at Callum during his promo tour of _due South_. No matter what, sooner or later someone had to bring up _the X-Files_. Did he think he made a mistake by turning down the role of Alex Krycek? When did he realized that he had basically handed instant fame to Nicholas Lea? Did he believe in extraterrestrial life? Rinse and repeat.

He got it. That other show was the hot ticket everywhere. It didn't take much to see how some people might have thought he had missed out on a great opportunity. Other than his agent, few knew that he had not been in a good place when the X-Files people offered a steady gig in a sci-fi show about aliens and conspiracies. So, he had chosen to do pretty much every guest role that came his way.

There were two things that the Alliance people had when they presented the role of Ray Kowalski: a kooky-as-hell premise for his character and Paul fucking Gross. The first was interesting and surreal. Meanwhile, the latter was a mix of handsome and the good kind of dirty that Callum couldn't ignore.

That first month on the set was strange, but nowhere near as rough as he had imagined it would be.

He had been ready for anything from cold shoulders to feeling isolated. Surprisingly, the majority of the crew was friendly. It didn't take long for the entire cast to find a working dynamic and though the hours were grueling, Callum felt OK.

Paul was a constant presence. Touching him as Benton reached out for Ray in front of the camera, joking with the makeup artists about putting more lipstick on Callum's pale pink lips and teasing him in semi-oblique ways. He was flattered, in spite of the fact that Paul flirted with anything that had a pulse. At times, it felt like they were playing a quiet and more than subtextual game of chicken.

By the end of the first week of production, he was flirting back.


End file.
